French Twist
by Seapooper
Summary: James is not someone to sit back and watch what he wants get away, but Dark Forces try and make sure that he won't have his way.


James was very happy. Very happy indeed, for James was in love. There was only one problem. He was in love with a lesbian. James was hopelessly in love with the biggest dyke ever to wear pants, but he had a plan. He would disguise himself as a woman in order to win the fair heart of the madien Lily. Well she wasn't really a maiden because she was a dyke, and a very slutty one at that.  
  
Voldemort had a secret. He was lonely. He longed for a woman to cradle his scrotum in her dainty hands. He wished every night for his type of dream woman. He wanted a hardy woman to bear him children and clean his shower drain of pubic hairs.  
  
James was feeling sexy! He had just bought his first pair of heels. Damn he was fine! He was all decked out in drag and now all he needed was some glitter eyeshadow and a whip. He would be one sexy "sistah" then.  
  
Lily was in a state of euphoria; she had just met the perfect woman for her. She was tall and very lesbionic. Oh la la! The sexiness was just too overwhelming!  
  
Voldemort was in love at last! After all his years of searching he had found the perfect woman for his scrotum. He would do all that he could to get her. The name was music to his ears. Jamami...Jamami Pottttir (it's French).  
  
James, or Jamami as his new membership card to the bushmen foundation read, was very sad to see that the manish woman for whom he lusted so despretely after was eyeing another woman. He didn't understand it. He didn't shave his legs, the sight of his penis didn't do a thing for him and he had a really deep voice. What could this other dyke have that he didn't?! Not much, he decided. That desicion triggered another one: the time was primed and lubricated for action.  
  
With each passing day, Voldemort grew more and more in love with Jamami Pottttir. There was something about her hairy legs, her deep voice with no trace of a French accent. How he hated the French, and any other people that couldn't speak English. He was so tired of having to cradle his own scrotum and having to clean his pubic hairs...he needed Jamami desperately. Jamami, much to his displeasure, however henceforth, didn't seem to altogether return his affections. He was beginning to suspect that she was of the lesbian sexual persuasion. He could dress like a woman, be that would involve digging up old memories from his college years, where all of the macho men teased him about his fondness for womens' hosiery. Come to think of it...the macho men came on to him a lot after they had ingested a fair quanitiy of something they called "alcoholic beverages". There lied the answer, for now he was sure that if only he could inhibit Jamami's usual method of thought, perhaps with an "alcoholic beverage" or something he could buy from that creepy guy who lived across the hall and was rumored to like Pink Floyd.  
  
Jamami loved shopping, especially for women's clothes. There was something about being able to change in a woman's dressing room with other naked women even though he was actually a man. Today he needed to go to Victoria's Secret and buy some overpriced push-up bras and control briefs. Today the overall hotness of thinking of the women wearing pink thongs in the rooms next to him drove him crazy. So crazy in fact, that he had to "relieve himself" in the corner, out of view of those obnoxious security cameras.   
  
He left the mall that day feeling confident that Lily would not be able to resist his new-found boobs and his firm, supple buttocks.  
  
Equpied with his new purchases, James mosied on down to the birkenstock store where Lily and all of her lesbian orgy group hung out and talked in deep voices about their short haircuts. They sold booze here because the girls had boobs and that sounded kind of like booze. Little did Jamami know, but his secret admirer was planning on buying a pair of hiking boots at the store at the same time.  
  
Jamami entered the room, glad for once that he already owned some birkenstocks (the lines were so long!), and made a beeline for the one pheemahle he had been using for masturbation material in all cases except in dressing rooms for the past while.   
  
"Hello," he crooned.  
  
"Hi yourself," she asseertively replied. The they talked for a bit on subjects that you would only really understand if you were a lesbian and had talked to a cross-dresser, so unless you are one of these two stereotypes, I don't want to hear you mimic their conversation.   
  
--The mere thought of anyone presuming to know what a lesbian and a cross-dresser talk about infuritates important people so much that this story will have to be continued at a later date, when you've learned your lesson. 


End file.
